Session 22: Who Watches the Watchers? Part 1

Pre-session Scenes

 

The Bonestealer Calls:

Somewhere during the caravan’s journey to the next town, Zenscha sat in the secluded shadows of the circus camp. Before anything else, she felt a familiar and unnerving sensation. A cold prickle ran down her spine as a moment later a voice—raspy and hoarse—emerged from deep within her pack.   At first, it was barely audible, but quickly grew louder, more insistent. “Zensch! ZENSCH! What’ve you got for me? Bone? Sinew? Muscle or brain of some new Aberration, I hope...”   Zenscha’s eyes narrowed as she dug into her satchel, her fingers curling around the grotesque artifact she now carried—the severed head of a ghoul. As she pulled it free, the surrounding air shifted and the warmth of the nearby fires dimmed slightly. The ghoul’s hollow eye sockets flickered faintly, and Kaligard's voice came from its lifeless lips, asking again, “...Found anything for me yet?”   Zenscha shrugged, unphased. “We were attacked by Tovag—or rather, the palisade we were hiding in was, and we just happened to be there.”   “Magnificent!” Kaligard’s enthusiastic shift of tone showed even through the cadaverous face. “Saw a Tovag and lived... that’s rare indeed. A pity you didn’t bring me a piece of one. Now that would’ve been an artifact worthy of our attention. But no matter.” The voice shifted again, a chuckle accompanying his words. “I like you, kid. Ever thought about making ghouls of your own? I’ll teach you. You’d be amazed at what a well-crafted corpse can do for you.”   Kaligard continued. He began to outline the steps needed to create her first ghoul: “Fennig weed.. you’ll need it. Grows deep in the Kray Lassa  , where the mist clings to the bones of the dead. And the insects there—you’ll need to milk those, the ones with long, spindly legs that skewer passersby from the trees. Of course, you’ll need a body—let me know when you've got a body. Your first canvas!”   Zenscha’s eidetic memory took careful note. She knew the dangers that lurked in the mist of the Kray Lassa—spirits of the restless dead, wisps of forgotten souls, and the Chatillian themselves. The Bonestealer's offer appealed to her. The air felt heavier, as though the weight of undeath itself pressed upon her.   Kaligard’s voice grew quieter, though no less sinister. “And don’t forget the salt. Lots of it. Binding, preserving... you’ll need it for more than just keeping the bodies fresh.”   As the conversation drew to a close, the ghoul’s head fell silent, and it retained its former rigor.  

The Witch-Hunter Inquisitor Makes His Move:

Once again, Orian jerked awake, his body drenched in sweat. His breath came in short, panicked gasps as the remnants of yet another nightmare clung to his mind. Inquisitor Ilarik's voice still echoed in his ears, though it felt more real than any dream should. “ENOUGH!” he groaned, clutching his temples.   His nights had frequently been plagued by Ilarik’s presence—haunting, oppressive, a weight in his bones. As Orian’s foggy mind cleared, realization crept over him like a cold dawn over a frozen lake. This time the Inquisitor had given himself away.   Ilarik has been using Dream magic to maintain this link. The Inquisitor had never been near Krezko those months back during the attack; he must have been watching from afar, seeing through the eyes of others, manipulating events like a puppeteer with unseen strings.   Orian grimaced, the weight of understanding settling over him. The Inquisitor had planted something within him—something like a psychic parasite, burrowing into his mind, sifting through his memories and dreams. Only Orian’s mental compartmentalization and his Nightmare abilities kept Ilarik in the dark about the group’s full intentions. But for how long?   Two choices presented themselves to Orian, neither of them exactly appealing.  

1. Confront Ilarik: A direct confrontation within the Dream realm, a battle of wills that could sever the link forever—or tighten Ilarik’s grip. “If you die in the dream, you die in real life”.
2. Zenscha’s Alternative: A more unorthodox approach. When told of Orian's problem, Zenscha proposed concocting a poison that would kill him, severing the Inquisitor’s connection, which had likely been maintained in some form since Serg's unfortunate fate back in Krezko. She would then administer an antidote. The risks of this plan were obviously immense. The wrong dosage, the wrong timing, and Orian could die for real.

 

Tonibore’s Craft Project:

During their travels, Tonibore remained focused on hunting with Karl and his little side project. He had also been planning the construction of portable seating for circus attendees, but with a twist—these seats could be quickly converted into fortifications in case of an attack. The work would be slow, requiring both wood and metal, but it’s a methodical process, a soothing distraction from the chaos around him.   He requisitioned the old animal cage wagon for his project, converting it into a storage space for his materials. After all, they weren’t currently using it for anything else except a pen for the donkey or the goats when they got ornery. Danyar could manage the animals well enough.   Scavenging for wood was an option, but would be time-consuming. Eventually, he decided to wait until they reached the next town, Gorlav, where he might purchase the necessary lumber.  

Scene 1: Arrival at Gorlav

After a week on the road, the group reached the town of Gorlav—sister city to Gorlavka, a bustling settlement by Midlands standards, situated at a key crossroads. With a population of about 1,000, Gorlav was the largest town they’d likely encounter before reaching Rostova. Despite its size, the town was open and sprawling, its safety ensured more by location than by walls, as it was relatively far from any external borders and centuries since the region had become part of Chernaya.   At the outskirts, members of the local regiment greeted them. The toll was small, only 2 silver for the caravan, but the soldiers’ eyes lingered on the group, especially Rolandus. Tonibore struck up a conversation, inviting the soldiers to attend the circus and perhaps even participate in a contest—a sword fight with Rolandus using wooden swords. The guards chuckled and agreed, their mood lightening. They mentioned that much of the local garrison had been requisitioned to bolster the force that recently headed north to contest with “Beren the Usurper”, (aka Beren the Bald).   The Market Square was the heart of Gorlav, a chaotic blend of vendors hawking everything from dried meats to charms meant to ward off evil spirits. The townspeople eyed the group with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Their clothes identified them as travelers, and the circus banner and wagons drew a few excited whispers from children, as did the large stag at the caravan's head. They ran alongside the wagons, laughing and shouting, “Zorin's Magnificent Traveling Circus! Take us with you on your adventures!” Tonibore waved them off with a smile.   As they continued, they passed an ancient shrine dedicated to Veles, a long-forgotten god of death and magic. Overgrown with vines and moss, the stone structure was maintained by the locals, who no longer worshipped or indeed recalled the lore of Veles, but still they sometimes left offerings—bones, herbs, bits of cloth—as if to appease an unseen force. The shrine stirred something in Zenscha, but the group moved on, after spending a few moments in its sepulchral interior.   It was the thick, acrid smoke that Rolandus noticed first, billowing from the chimney. His eyes followed the smoke to a roaring forge, and a rare spark of excitement lit his face. The blacksmith, Arkadi Lazarev was inside, a grizzled man with forearms like iron from years of swinging the hammer. His reputation stretched across the Midlands, his signage claimed. Rolandus looked at the swords and armor on display and immediately determined it was no idle boast. Without hesitation, Rolandus approached, eager to negotiate the reforging of his sword. The price—1,000 silver—was steep, about the price of a trained warhorse, but for work of this caliber, it was well worth the cost.   “Two days,” Arkadi promises, wiping sweat from his brow. “But I warn you, there is a chance the blade fails in battle. To truly restore it, it would need to be melted down completely and re-enchanted, but that’s work for the alchemists in the Free City... err I mean Rostova.”   Rolandus agreed to the terms. Two days later, he would return for his Argent sword.  

---

  At the suggestion of the Regiment, Tonibore and Desmond visited the town constable, a burly man with a grizzled beard, whose demeanor was cold but professional. “Performance rights will cost you 10 silver,” he said, scratching at a scar on his cheek. “Permit’s good for a week, starting in three days. You’ll perform in the square, but keep it contained. We don’t need any trouble.”   Behind his stern gaze, there was a quick flicker of unease that didn’t register to the pair—perhaps even apprehension. Unbeknownst to the party, he had orders to stall any caravans out of the south. An Inquisitor by the name of Kaslin was on his way to handle the matter, a recent missive had said. But the group, weary from the road, didn’t catch the flicker in his eyes, so eager were they for a little rest and repose after a long road.   They made their way to The Red Thorn Inn, the largest and oldest establishment in Gorlav, known for its warmth and hearty food. All of this was ascertained from the sign out front, although soon confirmed by their experience. The inn was a three-story stone building, weathered by years of harsh winters but still sturdy. Its name came from the wild thorn bushes that grow out front as well as on the outskirts of town, rumored to have been used in both medicine and poison in days long past. The connection was not lost on Zenscha, who eyed the buds with interest, thinking of Orian’s impending ‘treatment.’   They were greeted by a young stable boy who seemed somewhat flustered by the size of their caravan, but he determined they would have room if the owner confirmed it.   Inside, the heavy scent of ale, smoke, and stewed meat filled the air. Rough-hewn tables had a small crowd of locals—mercenaries, hunters, and traders—sharing tales of the road. The walls were adorned with animal pelts, giving the space a rugged, rustic feel. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth.   The innkeeper, Laska Radovich, was a tall, wiry woman with streaks of silver running through her jet-black hair. Her sharp eyes scanned the group. She’d seen her share of travelers, and more than a few troublemakers, but something about the circus folk piqued her interest.   “Rooms are what they are,” Laska said, her voice firm but not unkind. “But we’ve got space for ten of your group of thirteen. The rest of your lot can bed down in the stables with your wagons.” She paused, looking them over. “Just don’t bring any trouble in with you, and we’ll get along fine.”   A hulking figure loomed behind the innkeeper—Gorin Tolev, the inn’s bouncer. Even larger than the circus' strongman, his face was a patchwork of scars, one eye milky from an old injury. A man of few words, his massive arms crossed as he watched the newcomers.   They found the accommodations simple and practical: two large rooms, furnished with a row of 5 cots per room, each with a rough woolen blanket, and a chipped washbasin. The walls carried a faint draft, but it was far better than sleeping in the open.  

Scene 2: Downtime and Dangerous Hobbies

With three days until their first performance, the group took the opportunity to rest and prepare.   Tonibore headed to the town’s sawmill, a sprawling structure at the edge of Gorlav, where stacks of freshly cut lumber were piled high. The miller, a gruff old man with a weathered face, sized him up before agreeing to sell half of the wood he would need. The rest, Tonibore planned to scavenge from the nearby forest. He also set about that task for the next few days, finding ample wood although finding trees old enough to be of use was a slightly more challenging task.   Meanwhile, Zenscha began the delicate task of crafting a poison for Orian. The buds on the bushes outside the inn provided the key ingredient, their toxic sap known for its paralyzing properties. This would need to be distilled and amplified using her magic, to make it more than soporific.   She harvested the youngesr buds amidst the thorns, careful to avoid pricking her skin, and returned to her makeshift lab in one of the wagons, parked across the street from the stables.   Orian, steeling himself for what was to come, watched as Zenscha prepared the concoction. The two of them made their way up to one of the rooms.   Her first attempt was... less than perfect. When Orian drank the mixture, he felt himself melting into the floor and then dragged into a horrifying hallucination of hellish realms, datura on steroids—nightmarish visions swirled around him, plunging him into a madness he felt like he might never escape. His body convulsed as he gasped for breath like a fish on land, eyes wide with terror.   For hours, he was trapped in this waking nightmare, and when he finally emerged, drenched in sweat and weak, Zenscha cocked her head, intrigued. “Curious,” she muttered, already planning her adjustments for the next attempt. Longer distillation was clearly needed.   Orian, pale and trembling, managed a weak smile. “Next time?”   “Hush,” Zenscha replied. “It’ll be fine.”   The next day, after refining the mixture, Zenscha tried again.   More hesitantly this time, he drank it.   Orian felt the poison creeping through his veins, turning his skin ashen, his heartbeat slowing to a crawl. As he sunk into the cot beneath him, his companions watched in tense silence.   “How long do we have?” Zenscha asked.   “Hell if I know”, said Rolandus. But he used his medical skills to check on Orian’s condition. He was dying, though not yet quite dead.   They waited several agonizing minutes, hoping they hadn’t just killed their friend for good.   Zenscha applied the antidote. Orian had been walking through what looked like the Kray Lassa, the shadow forest of the Chatillians, and he had encountered a man he recognized as Anarien Eluane. He couldn’t recall their conversation now, aside from the sense that it was critically important. He felt himself being pulled away, right before some critical piece of information was to be revealed—about himself, about life, the universe? Who could remember.   His return to the waking world was painful. He gasped for breath, his body wracked with shivers. It would take days for him to recover fully.  

Far away in Sevgorod, Inquisitor Ilarik slumped back in his chair and let out a quiet groan. He was in his private chambers, clutching a Nirithean crystal.   “Fuck,” he muttered to himself, before issuing his next command into the stone. “So be it. I have more important matters to attend to. Take them.”

 

Scene 3: The Night of the Performance

The circus started to set up in the town square, preparing for their next performance. The group was still slightly weary from travel, but there was excitement in the air. The circus tents rose against the darkening sky, a splash of color against the grey and drab brown buildings of Gorlav. The locals, farmers and craftsmen alike, gathered in clusters, watching the preparations with a mix of awe and anticipation. Children peeked from behind their parents, wide-eyed and whispering excitedly about the coming performance.   The circus began with an air of festivity, a welcome distraction for the people of Gorlav.   Tonibore spent much of the show scanning the entrances and exits of the tents. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Their show was becoming more practiced, and the crowd seemed mostly pleased aside from some mixed reactions during Orian’s nightmare illusions act with Rolandus.   A man in the crowd watched the performance, his gaze far too focused, too calculating. He acted like any other curious local. Trained in the art of deception, he slipped through the audience, unnoticed. This was one of the Watch, and he had been sent to observe.   Meanwhile, after the opening acts, Danyar, Elara and Tashi sat at Ren's bedside in quiet conversation. The sound of the circus faded into the background, and for a moment, all seemed calm.   When the show came to an end, and the last of the crowd began to disperse, Tonibore headed to check on the wagons. He expected to find his companions resting, but instead, he was met with Ren’s wagon’s door hanging slightly ajar. Something was wrong.   In the distance, the sound of Eldryth, their stag, rang out—distressed whinnies echoing from the horses in the stables. The stable boy shouted in frustration, struggling to calm the agitated animal. “Whoa there! Hey now—what’s got into this damned animal!?”   Tonibore’s face paled as dread sank into his gut. He had been watching the entrances inside the circus, but not the wagons out back. He cursed under his breath and searched for any sign of where they could have gone.   Inside the wagon, he found a note pinned to the wall:  

OFFICIAL NOTICE   I am Tarak Volyn, of the Sevgorod Watch.   It is my Duty to report the following. So let it be known:   By order of the new Witch-hunter General, Inquisitor Ilarik, acting on behalf of King Belgarion, God-king of all Chernaya, and under the auspices of the Captain of the 5th Regency, Kaslin Radomir, you are to present yourself at the barracks at dawn for his scrutiny. There you will be questioned to Radomir’s satisfaction. If you do not show, you will be named enemies of the Crown, and dealt with accordingly.   You are also to “Bring the body of your recently deceased comrade”.

  Tonibore’s hand tightened around the note as the realization set in. Danyar, Elara, Tashi, and Ren had been taken by an Inquisitor.